all kinds of stories of things he’d seen in Novoro or tales of his time before he served Aron, when he was a mercenary for a fat lord in Glistentide that had more money than sense. Most of his stories are completely hilarious, involve him being caught with his pants down, and having to run for his life on to the next job. We end up looking forward to Solat’s arrival every day, just to hear more of his ridiculous tales.
This particular day starts out like any other. Aron heads off to enjoy the tournament, which means Yulenna and I are sewing. Solat stops by to see how we’re doing and before long, he’s invited himself to sit down and eat with us, telling another story of how he met a “murderous” concubine who was arrested for assassinating an emperor, even as Solat hid inside her trunk, naked, and quivered like a chicken while holding his balls.
The image of him sniveling in hiding while holding his junk? I admit, it’s pretty funny, and I’m giggling madly when the door opens.
Aron storms in, sweaty and dirty from the tournaments. He sees us laughing, and Solat’s feet are kicked up on one of the decorative tables. I’m the first one to see Aron come through the door, and my laughter dies in my throat at the furious look on his face.
Solat has his back to him. He gives me a disarming wink. “You needn’t worry about my balls, Faith. I assure you they’re all in one place.
“Not for long,” Aron growls behind him.
The color drains from Solat’s face. He jumps to his feet, back stiffening. “My lord.”
Aron immediately moves in front of my chair, as if he’s blocking me from Solat’s sight. “Are you flirting with Faith?” His hands flex, and I realize he’s inches away from pulling his sword. “Is this what goes on in my chambers when I am away?”
Oh shit.
Solat goes pale. “My lord…no. I would never…she is yours!”
Yulenna is instantly still, her gaze averted. She says nothing, but her sewing is frozen mid-stitch. Markos and Vitar watch from the doorway, worry etched in their faces, and I realize just how dangerous this is. We’ve all been joking around and having a good time, getting to know each other and acting like friends.
Because we’re mortals. It’s what mortals do.
But Aron is a god, and I’m his anchor. He doesn’t understand human friendship, any more than he understands sleep, and he would just as easily kill Solat as breathe.
I get to my feet, because I realize that I can’t have friends—at least not male ones—because Aron’s jealous. It’s a human emotion and he doesn’t know how to handle that shit.
He’s not human. I can’t assume he’s going to act like one.
“Time out,” I say cheerfully, and head to Aron’s side. I can practically see the flop-sweat on Solat’s brow as he tries not to shake. He knows he’s fucked up somehow, just by being too friendly. In a way, I can’t even blame him. Judging from his stories, Solat has always made his way by being charming and ingratiating until he got chased off.
He doesn’t realize that Aron won’t chase him off—he’ll just cut his head off without a thought.
“What is time out?” Aron asks, frowning at me. He plants his feet when I grab his arm, ignoring the electric shock between us.
I tug again, unwilling to be ignored, and he relents, letting me drag him away. I need to get him out of the room so he doesn’t kill Solat for breathing the wrong way—and then killing the others for being upset that he killed Solat. I can see it turning into an awful domino effect. It’s weird, too, because I feel protective of our small group. Even though I haven’t known them for long, I feel so much older and wiser than they are, strangely enough. Being around Aron gives me a different perspective, and while they’re just looking at this as an adventure serving a god, my everything hangs in the balance.
This could be my life and my afterlife, because what happens to me if I die while I’m here and tied to Aron?
The moment I shut the door behind us and we’re alone, I forget all about afterlives and my world, because it’s clear that Aron’s furious. He pulls away from me with a jerk and his hands are clenched as he paces the bedroom.
“What’s crawled up your ass?” I demand. My temper’s flaring, too. “Why